Page 8 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
Finn says nothing, just lets her manhandle his arm through a range of motion.
I don’t miss the way her biceps flex under the sleeves of her training top.
It’s almost more impressive than the taping job.
She finishes with a little flourish. “Try not to take it off this time, Sorensen,” she says, voice bone-dry.
Finn glowers under his thick brows and mutters, “No promises,” and hops off the table.
Once again, I don’t miss the way his face looks unusually bright, like this entire visit has cost him a little piece of his control.
I make my move. “You’re going to ruin his tattoo collection if you keep taping him like that.”
Sage doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe it’ll distract from the fact he can’t hold a puck in the neutral zone.”
This is why, I think to myself.Her energy is irresistible. “You’re feisty for a rookie.”
“I’m not a rookie,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel, “I just know how to do my job.”
There’s no invitation for more, but I can’t resist. “Hey, speaking of, you got that new KT tape I like?”
She jerks her chin at the med cart. “Top drawer. Don’t mix up the colors.”
I palm a roll of electric blue and shoot her a thumbs-up. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Finn, now fully mummified in black tape, snorts and heads for the door.
I hang back, letting the silence stretch.
Sage levels me with herno bullshitstare. “Anything else, Kingston?”
She’s the only person in this building who uses my last name with the right balance of contempt and sarcasm.
It’s almost intimate.
I twirl the tape between my fingers and lean in, dropping my voice like we’re sharing a state secret.
“Yeah, actually. You ever have a patient who just, I don’t know, refuses to get better unless you’re the one treating him?”
She frowns, not buying it. “Is this about your hamstring, or your ego?”
“Little of column A, little of column B.” I flash the full wattage smile, the one that gets me out of speeding tickets and into club VIPs. “But if you could work me in before practice, I’d owe you.”
“Some debts are too dangerous to collect,” she says, but I see the hint of a smile she tries to strangle at birth.
That’s all I need.
I give a two-finger salute and drift out, pretending I don’t care if she’s watching.
There are things I need to get done; like the media huddle that I’d pay good money to skip.
But that’s the job.
Skate hard, smile harder, and hope the cameras don’t catch what really matters.
The media scrum is as predictable as a goalie’s morning espresso.
Bored reporters huddle in a phalanx, pointing their phones at me and praying for a soundbite that’ll trend for more than a quarter hour.
